


the world behind the world

by 3ghosts



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Blood and Gore, Dark Magic, Death, Don't trust anyone, Explicit Language, Half-Sibling Incest, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Murder, a slew of terrible events, there is a prophecy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-01-18 07:16:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12383469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3ghosts/pseuds/3ghosts
Summary: Noctis lives in a world that broke a long time ago. The skies weep blood, the angels and demons are terrified of him, and his only real friend is a child who does not age. She burns down their home and everything gets worse.(In which Noctis is forced to cross lines in a world where good can hate and evil can love. Luna runs from [towards] everything, Ignis fights for the wrong [right] side, Prompto makes good [incredibly bad] decisions, and everyone else sees things the way they are.)





	1. Blood of the Pure

**Author's Note:**

> _lover, hunter, friend, and enemy_  
>  _(you will always be every one of these)_  
>  \- **“love & war”, fleurie**
> 
> This is the story of a hunted prince, a false angel, a bloodthirsty creature, and a demon with nothing to lose.

Noctis is running, feet hitting the asphalt hard. It’s raining blood, deep and tangy and suffocating. It enters his mouth, his nostrils. The smell is enough to make him gag and everything tastes like metal, slick and overpowering on his tongue, cold and sharp like a knife. He slips on the concrete, scrapes his knees on the blood-soaked pavement, and tries not to yell out in pain and frustration.

There’s _no time_.

He picks himself back up, flicks blood and hair out of his face, and continues to run for the fence he finally, _finally_ sees at the far end of the street. It looms, tall and ugly and unwelcoming all at once.

The fence is supposed to be stark white. It drips scarlet today. Through the drops of sticky red and black, he makes out the flickering of the lamplights overhead — the street is devoid of life, but it’s storming blood so that’s expected. The sunlight is beginning to fade, grey dusk mingling with red, and it’s enough to make Noctis pick up his pace.

It’s a rude shock when someone ducks out of an adjacent alley and collides straight into him.

“God. Fucking. _Dammit_ ,” Noctis spits as he topples down again, but he doesn’t hit the ground this time.

A solid hand shoots out to grab at his jacket. The blood rain has made it slippery, but his saviour has managed to grip it and yank him upright. The smell of cloves — stronger, much stronger than the blood — assaults his senses and he coughs.

A man’s voice cuts through the static rush of the rain speckling the sidewalk. “I apologise. Are you—”

No time to lose. Noctis shoves himself away from the man and snarls. “You better get the fuck _away_ from here if you know what’s good for you,” he says and takes two quick steps back. All he registers are a concerned pair of green eyes and a glint of silver wrapped around a slender neck standing out in the wash of red before Noctis takes off running again, in the direction of the fence.

He knows if he stays too long, every wraith this side of the city will catch up.

He shoots a glance back at the man when he’s far enough away, but he sees nothing but red rain and puddles of blood along an empty street. Well fuck, he could have been a wraith too, Noctis thinks angrily to himself. He’s so fucking stupid. He’s never seen another human being in the blood rain before. And every one he’s ever come across had died before it stopped. 

The fence is right in front of him. He closes his mind and clenches his eyes shut and runs straight into it, runs straight through it. The fence is nothing, a mere illusion set in place to keep prying eyes away. The door that’s behind the illusion, however, is shut.

“Luna! Fuck, fuck. Let me in!” he shouts and scrambles for the doorknob. It’s useless. He slams a fist against the door once, twice.

The door swings open and Noctis barrels inside, sopping wet. His shoes squelch and he thinks of kicking them off and throwing them back outside in the rain.

His vision clears. The blood is now gone, like there had never been any in the first place. It’s rainwater, smells like rainwater, and Noctis knows it. The enchantment Child Luna had set ten years ago to ward this derelict house and negate other enchantments has never failed. Noctis sees clearly when he’s with Child Luna. Noctis cannot live without Child Luna.

Child Luna, with her tiny hands and her tiny face and her deathly pale skin.

“You’re back,” she says to him, watches him like a hawk as he pulls the door shut behind him and sags to the floor, back to the hard wood. He’s exhausted and freezing. “Want to dry off?”

“Fuck off, Luna,” Noctis chokes out through heaving gasps. “The rain came out of nowhere, I couldn’t even _see_ a fucking thing. Fuck. The smell.” 

Child Luna, small and fragile as she is, with the face and body of a ten-year-old girl, kneels down next to him, and he tries to move away from her brittle hands. She reaches for his face, has to scrabble for it and hold it in place because Noctis is struggling to look away, and she gazes into his eyes with a brutal determination that is so at odds with the images that assault his mind, of white lilies, of dove feathers, of early morning sunlight glancing off a lake, of smooth silk against his skin. Noctis breathes deeply and feels everything melt away.

Luna smiles and slowly removes her hands from his damp cheeks. “Feel better?”

Noctis blinks rapidly and toes his shoes off. “They’re soaked through,” he grumbles. He doesn’t comment on the state of his shredded knees, pink and raw and wet. The only blood he sees is seeping out from the cuts and split skin. It doesn’t look pretty.

“Don’t pout. I’ll get a fire going and we can have some leek soup. I’ll have a look at your wounds after. They don’t seem bad.” Luna gets to her feet and swiftly moves deeper into the house, past the broken crates and debris littering the hallway. “The Spirit Rain sounds like it’s stopping,” she calls from the dining hall, “so if you rest now, you’ll be able to head to the church tonight.”

Noctis stands slowly and hobbles after his guardian of seventeen years, his ageless guardian with a heart of stone. He growls in pain and tries not to aggravate his injuries as he sinks into one of the half-broken chairs at the makeshift table in the kitchen. The only light in here comes from a single fluorescent lamp overhead; not much daylight filters through the slats in the boarded-up windows. 

“Hate this place,” Noctis mutters, poking at his knees with a finger and wincing.

Luna sparks a fire in the stone-lined hearth and shoves a heavy cast-iron pot into the flames. “You’ll love the soup,” she says mildly. The heat from the flames wash over Noctis and he shudders.

The soup looks like vomit, when it is served. Yellow and gloopy and filled with unidentified chunks of orange and brown. Noctis scowls down at the bowl that Luna pushes in front of him.

“Eat,” she says, and she takes her own seat in front of him, eyes him sharply like she thinks she knows something. It’s maddening, the way she thinks she knows everything. “Did you see anyone?” 

Noctis makes a noise around the spoonful of soup in his mouth. It tastes like dirt and burnt vegetables and too much salt. He swallows it down quickly – it scorches his throat – and shrugs. “No. Yes. Some asshole in the rain. Fuck was he doing in the rain?”

Luna fidgets with the leather cord around her neck, its stone charm scratching the hollow of her neck. “Was he a wraith?” Her voice is soft. Dark.

Noctis shrugs again. “Didn’t seem like it. Least, he didn’t want to rip me to pieces. And his eyes were… you know. Normal. Whatever, he’s probably dead by now.”

Luna is quiet.

Noctis frowns at her silence. “He smelled like cloves.”

Luna nods absently as though his observation is just the thing she expected to hear all along. “He wasn’t a wraith, then.”

Noctis glances at Luna, contemplates her passive face. He grins a little and stirs his soup. “Definitely fucked by now then,” he tells her wryly.

Luna just continues to look at Noctis, expression inscrutable. “From now on, stay away from anyone and anything smelling of clove, Noctis.”

Another rule, like so many of her other rules. And he knows she means well, she means to protect him. But the rules are really starting to aggravate him. Once upon a time, there’d been only one rule: no mirrors in the house. “No mirrors, Noctis, no mirrors in the house,” Luna’d said, when Noctis turned eight. “It's a precaution,” she’d explained. “Mirrors are dangerous in the wrong hands. They are gateways. Not for the chaos of the Netherworld, but for the precise _order_ of this world.” And when he’d turned twelve, she’d given him a story: “The Goddess of Sorrow cherished her mirrors. She was vain and sad and wanted nothing more than to be loved, so the legend goes. Treat mirrors with caution. Mirrors can be used to trick, to confuse, to _watch_.”

Once upon a time. Now, there are so many rules.

Noctis wants to throw his bowl of soup across the table. Wants to see it splatter across the scuffed wood and stain the floors. “Okay. Why?” he says, voice steady.

“It’s a dangerous smell, and you’ve just turned twenty.” It’s all Luna offers before she changes the subject. “I baked a cake. It’s nice and sweet.”

Noctis lifts another spoonful of yellow liquid to his mouth, makes the mistake of looking. A dead insect stares back at him. He drops the spoon back into the soup. “Yeah,” he mutters, pushing the bowl away from him. “Thanks.”

It’s not that he hates the place, it’s more that they’ve lived this way for so many years now, and while he’s grateful that Child Luna has been with him all this time, he is also growing tired of her unexplained paranoia. 

“Pryna?” he asks moodily.

“She’s in the rain.”

“Of course she is. Dumb dog.”

“Why do you despise her so much?”

“Maybe you forgot, but she likes using me as a chew toy when I so much as try to touch her.”

“Perhaps it’s how she shows affection.”

“Luna, she went straight for my throat the first time she saw me.”

“She is suspicious of you, but she will never truly hurt you.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

“She won’t hurt you when _I’m_ around, I will not allow it,” Luna says with such conviction that Noctis sags in his seat and tries not to look at her face too closely. He hates it when she does that. The way she makes his skin crawl and makes him feel like hiding from the strength of her molten gaze.

They’d picked up Pryna two months ago. The dog had been prowling the streets just outside the safe house. Pristine and white and unscathed, eyes black as coal. Proud dog, arrogant dog. Noctis hates her with a passion and he knows exactly why. Pryna _adores_ Luna, _listens_ to Luna, gives Luna every scrap of attention, but the stupid animal _hates_ him. He knows it, feels it. Deep down, he knows the dog wants him as far away from Luna as possible. He wonders if Luna knows this. Wonders why Luna allows this.

“What the fuck is Pryna, anyway?”

“Excuse me?”

“She’s not a real dog, anyone can tell. She doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, doesn’t give a shit about the Spirit Rain, comes back looking like she’s killed something.”

Luna purses her lips, like she doesn’t want Noctis to continue this train of thought. “She’s just a dog, Noctis.”

“And _you’re_ just human,” Noctis says sarcastically.

Luna ignores the jibe and crosses her arms imperiously, or as imperiously as someone with the face of a little girl can manage. “Noctis, I love you and want only what’s best for you. Leave Pryna alone, we cannot afford to have her turning against us. She’s here to help.” 

“Is she a wraith? She sure seems to have the bloodlust for it.”

Luna snorts, then primly composes herself and pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You say that to her face, I dare you.”

“I’ve seen her rip one to pieces, no thanks.”

Luna stands and moves to the small cupboard near the kitchen sink, pulls out two bent forks and a level cylindrical object sitting on one of the ceramic platters they’d found in a dumpster. “Cake, shall we?”

Noctis stares at the platter she sets down in front of him. The cake is perfect, if a little flat-looking, smelling of sweet lavender honey and chocolate frosting and a hint of soft spice. Noctis wonders after the poor soul she robbed this from. Luna cannot _possibly_ have made this; she doesn’t even know how to bake.

“Happy birthday,” Luna says proudly. She hands him a slip of paper. It’s more of a scrappy note than an actual card. 

Noctis unfolds it.

“Dearest Noctis,” he drawls out loud, tries not to sound too bored. “Happy twentieth. You deserve the cake. We both deserve the cake. Our world’s gone to shit, but we’ll always need something sweet to make things right. Don’t worry, I didn’t steal it. A friend gave it to me.” Noctis glances up at this, suspicious. “You don't _have_ friends,” he says sharply, and Luna just shrugs in response. Noctis narrows his eyes at her. 

“You don’t know that,” Luna says bluntly.

Noctis snorts. “You’ve just got me.”

Luna sighs and her expression melts into something strange and yielding. Something pained. “Yes,” she says softly. “Yes, I’ve just got you.”

Noctis feels a stab of awkward discomfort and looks down at the card to avoid her stare. He hastily finishes it. “Twenty is an important number. From now on, watch your back. I can’t always do it for you. Love, Luna.” Noctis looks up from the scrawled message and sucks in a short breath. “Luna, I—”

“Shut up and just eat the cake.” Luna’s cheeks are stained pink. 

Noctis eyes her for a moment, then slowly folds the piece of paper into quarters and places it in his pocket. “Yeah. Um. Love you too, Luna. Thanks.”

Luna smiles, cuts a slice of cake for Noctis, and then for herself, and hands him a fork. The rain lets up outside and Noctis hears the scritch-scratch of Pryna at the back door, demanding to be let in. Stupid thing. 

“I’ll get her,” Luna says brightly, shuffling her skinny feet. Noctis sees the crisscrossing scars that run up and down her legs where her short dress can’t hide them. He averts his gaze. “Eat the cake,” Luna commands, “it was really bloody fucking hard to get.”

Noctis rolls his eyes and stuffs a forkful of it into his mouth. The cake makes his eyes water. 

Noctis doesn't remember the last time he’s had cake this grand or this _cake_ -like. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s had _any_ kind of proper dessert. It’s sweet and sticky and decadent and lusciously rich in his mouth. But it tastes so bitter on his tongue. 

He gets through half the slice before he hears a sharp bark and a whine, and then Pryna’s in the kitchen with him. She slinks in like smoke, smelling of rainwater and something coppery. Luna follows her in, motions for the dog to sit by the table and watches in satisfaction as Pryna drops to her haunches in front of Noctis.  

“Noct’s twenty today,” Luna says to the dog pointedly, like she’s telling a dark secret and wants Pryna to understand. “You know what this means.”

Noctis can never get his head around Luna and her tenacity when it comes to the most trivial of things. They didn’t need the cake, Pryna doesn’t give _two_ _shits_ about Noctis turning twenty. Luna is incredibly stupid to think this.

Pryna, dripping wet and panting slightly, stares at Noctis for a long moment, eyes hot and intense. Is she trying to read his mind? The gaze makes Noctis want to leave the kitchen. Luna pats Pryna on the head once and Pryna makes a small noise, blinks at Noctis and slowly inclines her head once in an unmistakable bow, then glances away like she’s lost interest.

Noctis grins wryly. “She _so_ fucking hates me.”

Pryna gives a wet snort and pads out of the kitchen and up the wooden stairs of the house. They don’t see her come back downstairs until nightfall.

 

The blood on the streets fade. The cracks between the Netherworld and The City have finally sealed. The chaos has stopped seeping into Eos. For now.

The night is quiet and Noctis isn’t ready for the stinging cold that slaps him in the face as he steps outside. It isn’t far to the church — two blocks away — but he can’t help the feeling of terror that creeps up the back of his neck. The streets are lit, but barely so; electric lamplight buzzes soft and incessant, and there’s a thin veil of fog that coats the air. The meager light from the streetlamps do little to chase away the pressing darkness of the witching hour.

There’d already been a Spirit Rain episode today, so he’s banking on the chance that no more unstable events from the Spirit Realm will occur while he’s working. The last thing he needs is to be caught off guard by chaos and destruction while watching the church. 

“You’re late,” the old priest grumbles as Noctis steps in through the creaky wooden doors of the rundown church. His shoes squeak against the worn tiles of the antechamber. “Your friend promised midnight.”

“It’s _midnight_ ,” Noctis growls, tries to tamp down his anger because this is a place of worship and he doesn’t want to cause a scene. But he’ll cause one anyway, if this guy keeps going on like this, and – Noctis looks past the small opening, past the main pillars – it’s a good thing there isn’t anyone occupying the nave.

“The wards have _expired_ , boy. How long will it take you to make new ones? I cannot afford this House of Light to be vulnerable for even a second. I will not stand for the wraiths desecrating this holy ground.”

 _Bahamut won’t give a shit,_ Noctis almost says out of spite, but he holds his tongue and gets to work. No use angering the priest, he’s here to get paid. “Where do you want the wards this time?”

“All the doors, all the windows. Luna does the basement and attic as well.”

“Right. Kitchen?”

“If you think you can steal from me, think again. The kitchen is off-limits until you’ve managed the rest.”

Noctis knows he’s one step away from doing something he’ll regret, so he nods stiffly and stalks back to wooden doors of the church. Might as well start with the main entrance. Not that wraiths discriminate against other points of entry.

“She says you can do it. Is she certain?” There is a hint of apprehension in the old man’s voice that Noctis finds even more grating than the mistrust — Noctis can feel the waves of fear rolling off him and he hates him.

“I assure you she’s trained me plenty for this,” Noctis says shortly, drawing a small knife from his jacket pocket. An old knife, but he’d sharpened it this morning just for this purpose.

He stops in front of the doors and observes the previous ward left by Luna, its shades of rust and piteous spark of negative energy making him suddenly nauseous. He shuffles a few feet to the side, seeks out a clear surface, and plunges the tip of the knife straight into the wood of the door. He scratches a symbol into the surface with clinical precision — he knows this: one vertical line straight down, two smaller strokes angled high to the left, and then to the right.

The mark of protection.

It doesn’t take long to craft. Satisfied with his work, he wipes the blade against the fabric of his jacket once, twice, then slides the sharp edge against the palm of his left hand, waits for enough blood to pool there, and rests his hand on the fresh sigil. He leaves his mark, and then steps away. Some of his blood drips to the floor.

His nausea abates and that’s a sign, if anything.

The wards are child’s play. The world is dying from the chaos that the Netherworld has brought with it. Those with the ability to forge wards that keep out the wraiths that come crawling out of the unseen realm are rare.

He moves through the church, from site to site, drawing the same symbols and soaking them with the blood of the pure. Luna has told him time and again: the blood of the pure, only the blood of the pure can withstand the chaos that the wraiths bring _._ And Noctis knows the “blood of the pure” can only come from one source. Not him.

Not for the first time, he wonders after Luna’s sanity.

His blood is not the blood of an angel. His blood is not the blood of the pure.

Yet, he’s been given the training he needs for this task, and his guardian seems confident of his success. Perhaps Luna sees something in him that he cannot fathom, but whatever, he’ll do his job and get out of here.

The church is not a new shelter; he understands why it needs to be warded against the destructive spirits that have increasingly been making their home amongst the humans. Many humans seek out the church during instances of the blood rain – it’s the only House of Light for miles. He’s done it plenty of times. And while he’d rather hide from a storm elsewhere, he at least knows the wards in this building will hold – Luna sees to it. And now he does, too. 

At least they are compensated for this. Paid in food and shelter, if not in hospitality or anything else. This suits Luna and Noctis just fine.

A few moments more, he’s done with the windows and the attic and the basement. His hand hurts like hell, and he sees the white of his flesh glisten through his broken skin, but he ignores the pain and keeps going. “Kitchen?” he asks pointedly, and Father Hester nods, beckons to him and leads the way.

The kitchen is a tiny room down a corridor in the east wing and it smells faintly of something burning here. Noctis doesn’t comment on the smell, only follows the priest. When they reach the kitchen, Noctis spots the small side door that leads out to the open yard and makes a beeline towards it.

“This is the last door?” he asks, gritting his teeth as he carves his sigil into the door and paints it red. “No other entrances?”

“That’s the last,” the priest nods, walks over to the counter by the shelves stocked with dried food and knives and pots and pans, picks up a wicker basket filled with goods. As he hands it over, he lists the contents. “Bandages, for the wound. Tea leaves, cured meat, a loaf of bread, enough cooking oil for a month. Milk, cheese. Plums, as Luna requested. Just four, and they are for _her_. Only for her.”

Noctis snorts at the last bit. “Yeah, thanks.” He takes the basket with his good hand. It’s much heavier than he expects. He figures it’s the cooking oil and the milk.

They make their way back to the antechamber and to the main entrance. Noctis is itching to flee the church so that the stone statues of the winged angels that sit along the semicircular recess just behind the altar can no longer gaze upon him with their blank, open-mouthed stare.

“It had better be Luna next time,” Father Hester says as they come to a stop by the door. “She pays her respects.”

“Oh, yeah?” Noctis mutters. “To you?”

“You _are_ a wicked child,” the priest hisses. “To the God of Light, _Bahamut_. The god of all the angels and the warmth of this world. 

 _As if,_ Noctis thinks sardonically. _As if Luna would bow to any god._ “I’m sure,” he drawls, and hefts the basket awkwardly – it will be a mission to lug this all the way home with a single hand. His other hand is still sore and bloody; he’ll need Luna to help with the healing when he gets home. “Well, it’s been a pleasure. Let us know when you need the next set of wards to go up.”

Father Hester sucks in a deep breath before sighing. His voice is dark when he next speaks. “Do you know _anything_ about the God of Light, boy?”

Noctis scowls. So much for leaving without some sort of sermon. “I know he decided to abandon his people,” he says scathingly. “That’s a pretty shit thing to do. Why would anyone still put him on a pedestal? If you ask me, he’s ten times worse than the Goddess of Sorrow. At least _she_ had a proper reason for fucking off to who knows where. Yeah, I know the story. I have no sympathy for worshippers of the Light.”

Father Hester’s lip curls and he shakes his head. “Sharp mouth. You realise the creators of this world are brother and sister.”

“One decided to take a long nap, the other fell for a pagan god and ran away. Bottom line: they aren’t looking after us anymore, are they? I don’t get you worshippers.” 

“Perhaps the concept of faith eludes you.” 

“Sure. Let’s go with that.” Noctis has heard enough stories to know what he should believe in, and what he shouldn’t. He knows enough to be a skeptic. Or at least he thinks so.

Father Hester sighs and motions for him to go. “If you need more provisions before the next warding, come when the sun is high. Our door is open to you and Child Luna.”

Noctis nods. “Thanks, Luna will be pleased to know.” He brushes past the priest and leaves the sanctuary of the church.

The midnight chill makes him shiver and he hopes Luna’s still got a fire going in the house. He’s glad for the spoils in the basket – they can have a decent meal at last.

 

When he enters the house, he’s immediately aware of Luna’s presence. She’s upstairs. What he doesn't expect is the strange, hollow impression in the air that doesn’t quite belong. It lingers in the foyer and wafts through the hallway, though it’s already fading, blown away like smoke in the last hour. Perhaps Luna has been practicing some art. But no, Noctis knows her magic and the way it enshrouds like a comforting blanket. This feels crisp and sharp and desolate. And the smell of something earthy, heavy—

It’s gone.

Noctis scowls and sets the basket of food on one of the crates by the door. “Has someone been in the house?” he calls.

It takes Luna a long moment to respond, and when she does, it’s with an imperious tone that filters down the stairs. “What makes you think that?”

“Where’s the dog?”

Luna appears on the landing just above the alcove. She’s in her thin sleeping clothes and her straw-like hair hangs down around her shoulders, limp and unwashed. She eyes Noctis, eyes the basket of goods. “She left when you went to the House of Light. The job is done, then? I hope Father Hester was pleased with your work.”

“He gave you plums,” Noctis says dismissively, then: “So you’ve been alone all night.”

“I’m perfectly fine on my own.”

“Luna—”

“Perfectly fine,” she repeats. “I know how to protect myself.”

“I know you do.”

“Excellent, then let us feast on my plums. I’ll heal your wound. Come.” Noctis watches as Luna bustles down the creaking stairs. She takes the basket and beckons for him to follow her into the kitchen. 

Noctis deepens his frown. “They don’t even look ripe enough to eat,” he grumbles and shuffles after her. He welcomes the warmth of the fire from the stone oven when he enters the kitchen.

“I forgot something this afternoon,” Luna says as she unpacks the basket and lays out the spoils before her on the stained table. “Completely slipped my mind.”

Her tone is suspiciously airy.

“What?” Noctis doesn’t even bother to hide how cautious he sounds.

Luna doesn’t say anything for a moment. She puts away the milk and the cheese and the cured meat, slots the tea and bread and pitcher of oil on the shelf near the kettle. She leaves the plums and bandages on the table. At last, she turns to him and stretches out a hand. “Let me tend to your wound first.”

Noctis extends his arm and holds his injured hand out, palm facing up.         

Luna clucks her tongue and gives Noctis a reassuring smile. “The cuts are precise, not as messy as your practice runs. Well done.”

Noctis rolls his eyes. “The blood’s more important than how pretty you can make your wound look.”

“It helps with a cleaner healing,” Luna says, and her voice is clipped like she’s trying to teach him a lesson. “Right, don’t move.” She takes his hand in hers and maintains skin contact. It only takes a second for Noctis to feel the wash of heat that stems from the palm of her hand. And it starts to work. He feels the searing sensation of his wounds knitting together, sees the dried cuts morph into scars and then into raised razor-thin lines, and those vanish entirely by the time Luna is done.

Noctis doesn’t make a sound throughout the healing, but it hurt as much as the fresh incisions had. Noctis doesn’t make a sound because he knows Luna bears the brunt of the pain as well.

“Thanks, Luna,” he says quietly, pulling away from her and stepping out of her personal space. He knows she needs the space. And she looks a little pale from the healing.

“Pleasure.”

Noctis sits at the table. “You forgot something this afternoon,” he reminds her.

Luna smiles. “Yes. Your gift.”

“Uh.”

“Your gift,” Luna says again. “It’s your birthday, so you get a present.”

Noctis frowns, confused. “You already got me cake.”

“That’s not really a gift, is it?”

She isn’t making sense. “It was the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life,” he tells her, “so if the cake wasn’t it, I’m afraid of what you think a _proper_ gift should be.”

He gets his answer when Luna produces something from the pocket of her nightdress: a thin chain, long and delicate, with a circular pendant. It sits in Luna’s hand, sleek and fragile and gleaming in the soft light of the fire. The pendant is nothing like the stone ornament that hangs around her own neck. This one is a small flat disc made of highly polished silver. It’s a tiny charm, as small as his thumbnail.

“I’m not going to be around forever,” Luna says slowly.

Noctis takes the piece of jewellery from her. “Is this a protective talisman?”

“Of a sort.”

Noctis slips the chain over his head and looks down at the polished disc.

It feels… suffocating. Like a weight that’s far heavier than it appears. And he knows, almost as soon as he’d touched it, that it’s not Luna’s magic. Hers is a searing white blanket of power that radiates warmth and comfort. This magic is cold and deep and hollow. It doesn’t hurt to adorn it, but it’s going to be hard to ignore its presence. He wonders if she had it made by someone else.

 _There’s something you’re not telling me,_ he wants to say. “Thanks,” he says instead, and gives her a small smile.

Luna looks away. She picks up the untouched bandages and moves over to the cabinets, shoves them in haphazardly. They have a sizeable collection there, unused and collecting dust.

Noctis fiddles with the pendant for a moment, watches how it shimmers in the dim firelight, watches how it reflects an orange glow against his fingers. He remembers something Luna once said to him.

No mirrors in the house.

  

There is something nice about the early hours of the morning. It’s easy to forget that the world is dying in the moments before the sun truly rises. At least the sun _does_ rise – it can be hard to tell sometimes, if the chaos from the Netherworld decides to flare up. A quiet dawn is something The City still claims as its own.

They share the single bedroom upstairs, him and Child Luna.

Noctis has always known Luna is not like him – her gentle aura and her passive magic and her ability to make him think of inviting warmth and peace when he knows he should be thinking of less tasteful things gives her away. She has never said as much, even as she tells him stories of the God of Light and tales of the Goddess of Sorrow and whispers of the Godless War between the angels and the demons, like she’s lived through the legends. But Noctis knows she’s not trying to be subtle.

What Noctis doesn’t know is _why_ she made the choice to run and hide from a life she understood. Why become a guardian to an orphan? Noctis doesn’t remember it, but he knows he’d been young when Luna had found him, barely old enough to run. 

The years and seasons have changed him, but Luna has never aged. He is now twenty, but she looks as young and lost and small as when she’d held him in her skinny arms. Luna, with her straggly wheatsheaf hair and her pearly blue eyes and her translucent skin, has remained as pale and pristine and willowy and angelic as she’d been for as long as he can remember.

But in the body of a ten-year-old, she is still the most lethal being he has ever laid his eyes on. 

Unfortunately, Noctis is slowly starting to realise just how unstable the world is becoming. He needs to know how to protect his guardian.

He knows he isn’t of the same calibre as Luna. He knows she isn’t even human. But he knows Luna deserves to feel like she hasn’t spent the better part of the last two decades raising a useless boy.

When Noctis wakes up an hour before the sun rises, it’s to the sound of Pryna screaming and howling. It’s to the feeling of ice creeping through his veins and something vaporous and opaque entering his consciousness.

Luna jerks from her spot on the cot in the corner of the room, and the air suddenly crackles with something strong and half-blinding. “No, no, no,” she says, throwing her sheets to one side. “ _Unbelievable_. They’ve found us.” 

“They?” 

Luna doesn’t bother with a response, just bolts out of the room and thunders down the stairs. “Pryna!” Her voice is commanding. And terrified.

There is noise. A lot of noise.

Noctis takes a moment to compose himself, then he scrambles after Luna.

By the time he reaches the stairs and peers over the railing, there is nothing but a dewy mist rising up from the ground below. And silence.

The air tastes like winter and madness, feels like rust and sand against his skin. Feels like knives and pins and needles pressing against his forearms and face and neck. 

The mist clears eventually, and he can see Luna and Pryna standing over large shapes on the ground.

They are bodies. Face up, motionless.

Two wraiths. Noctis knows they’re wraiths because the gashes in their wounds do not leak blood, and their eyes give them away. For all that they look human, they have gaping holes in their heads where the eyes should be.

It takes Noctis a long moment to understand what has happened.

There are two dead wraiths in the hallway. And another body further along the hall that has clearly been savaged by Pryna, scarlet pooling and staining the carpet where it lies. This body bleeds. It bleeds from a neck wound.

Pryna always goes for the throat.

Luna is there, next to the panting dog. She reaches out slowly to touch Pryna’s blood-drenched muzzle and some understanding passes between them. Luna turns her gaze up and Noctis catches her eye, and he’s suddenly aware that he’s swaying a little from his spot on the stairs. There’s so much blood and it looks almost comical to him. Luna’s eyes cut back to the bodies strewn around her.

“I don’t understand,” she says, voice low and angry. Her tiny hands are balled into fists and her frame is trembling with something – fear, power, rage. Noctis doesn’t know. “Wraiths and demons picking a fight _here._  Everyone is crossing the fucking line. This prophecy will destroy Insomnia before it saves us!”

“Luna. Tell me what I’m looking at!” Noctis demands.

“The Queen has found us. She’s made her move. We need to get out of here.”

Noctis feels a tremor run through his body. He’s had enough of Luna sidestepping _everything_.

“Tell me,” he grounds out. 

Luna nods in his direction. “Okay.” She nods again. “All right, Noctis. Long story short?” she says, stepping barefoot through the blood. Some of it trails behind her. Pryna drools gore and saliva all over the carpet when she dips her head and moves out of Luna’s way. “You want the short version, yes? Okay, Noct. I’ll give you the short version.” She walks to the back of the house, to the kitchen, and when she returns, Noctis sees that she has the pitcher of oil from Father Hester in one hand. She steps back over the bodies, looks directly at Noctis. Her eyes are ablaze.

“The angels have failed to hold back the chaos centuries ago, the wraiths of the Spirit Realm are taking over. Demons and angels have never tried to pick fights with the wraiths. But there is a prophecy – more of a curse – and both sides are afraid, especially the Queen of Demons.” Luna tips the pitcher and pours oil along the floor and over the bodies, forms a snaking trail to the front door. “As she should be.” 

“Prophecy,” Noctis echoes. “The one you’ve told me about. Once. When I was a kid.”

Luna sets the empty pitcher aside and recites something vaguely familiar. Her voice is flat and distant when she speaks:

“ _The true son of the Queen shall take the throne of the angels; the true son of the Queen shall unite the clans of the Netherworld and command their armies; the Queen shall fall at the hands of her own family._ ”

Noctis stares at her. He has never heard her sound like this before.

“Now. Matches.” Luna snaps her fingers. An old matchbox appears in her hand. Noctis wonders, wildly, why she’s attuned herself to a matchbox of all things. “Pryna, Noct, out the door.” 

Noctis understands what she means to do, so he runs down the stairs to where Luna stands and he yanks the front door open.

“They want a war. Demons and wraiths and angels. They want a fucking  _war_.” Luna sets the matches aflame in her hand without striking a single one, and she drops the whole box to the ground.

The fire engulfs the carpet and the oil and wooden floorboards and the bodies, and Noctis is sure he can feel every ounce of Luna’s magic fanning the flames. The heat is overpowering and they scramble out the door and onto the dark street. The white fence no longer stands – the magic has broken.

“We’re being watched,” Luna says over the roar of the fire. “We need to move somewhere safe.” 

Pryna whines and pushes her nose against Luna’s hand.

Noctis doesn’t move from his spot. “Who’s the true son?” he asks, because he knows Luna has the answer.

Luna rounds on him, and she looks terrifying in the orange light of the burning house. “Someone I need to trust,” she says to him, blunt and hard and unapologetic. “And someone whose trust I need to gain.” 

There is no emotion in her voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone kept calling [finding the sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11216388) “cute”. this is, um. not cute.
> 
> title taken from _constantine_. the film. it kind of (very much so) inspired this train wreck.


	2. The Farseers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good intentions and other unexpected things.

Ignis _loathes_ the outer suburbs of Insomnia. Its streets are ugly and unwelcoming and nothing like what he’s used to. He’s used to the heart of the city: looming buildings and concrete mazes and hard glass and aged steel. He savours the press of claustrophobia against his skin. It’s too open here, the streets too wide and too domestic. And right now, they are drenched in blood, wet and unsightly and gleaming in the light of the setting sun. Ignis sees it, but he doesn’t feel it. He’s invulnerable to such trifling effects that stem from the chaos.

It’s cold, but the cold is nothing to him. 

At least the rain catches him only _after_ he’s made the delivery.

And what a foolish delivery it had been, too. The smell of lavender honey mocks him, and not for the first time today, he wonders if he shouldn’t have played into the hands of sentimentality.

He’s only been in this district a handful of times, and he forgets just how sprawling the dying city is. He doesn’t consider outskirts like this home, but he has a proper task to see to, and he’s thankful for the storm of blood that hides him and shields his presence. It is rare for his kind to venture this far; the last thing he needs is to be followed. Or watched.

He avoids the House of Light and finds the abandoned abattoir without issue, its grey façade sitting between two narrow warehouses with smashed windows. It _does_ trouble him that it sits so close to the ruined angel’s hideaway, much closer than the last nest had been. But it’s why he’s here in the first place. He needs to make an appeal.

No.

He’s not one to beg.

He’s here to make a demand.

There’s blood everywhere. He feels it soak through his suit, his hair, crawl down his face in slithering streaks. But it doesn’t scare him. He resists its madness, its archaic magic. He’s immune to it. Anyone with an ounce of his blood would be.

He draws close to the entrance of the abattoir – it looks more like a storage facility from the outside, with its large rolling steel doors. It’s almost alarming, how much of this foreign magic he can sense coming from inside the building, yet it attracts him, like a moth to a flame.

The side door swings open as he crosses the street. A figure steps out into the rain, his crater-like eyes deep and soulless as he surveys Ignis with an unerring gaze that does not exist.

“Thought I sensed something mangled out here,” it speaks, voice like gravel, dragging deep and loud through the rain. “Half-cooked kin, blood of ice. Come to defile my shelter like you did last time?”

There is an undercurrent of amusement in the tone, alongside something that screams danger and a sentiment much more obscure than that. Wraiths have always been tricky to read.

Ignis shakes his head and pushes some of his hair away from his forehead. “Not today,” he says, and the vacant-eyed man ducks back into the building without a word. Ignis follows him into the abattoir, where it is dark and dry and spacious. “Besides,” he continues, wiping some of the wetness off his face while discreetly checking his surroundings, “we’re past that. It’s best we be diplomatic henceforth.” 

“Good.” The wraith turns back to consider him. “Don’t want a repeat of what you did to the cabin last week. Ain’t easy finding spots to camp out in this dull wilderness. Your walled city is something of a maze.” 

 _Then go home,_ Ignis wants to say, _get out of my city, get out of Eos._ But he knows that’s impossible. Not even the wraiths have that much control over the chaos. He spies the flitting shadows in the back rooms, just out of sight. They confirm to him that the two of them are not alone.

The wraiths have claimed much of the city, and they are here to stay.

“You picked a slaughterhouse,” Ignis mutters, eyeing the hooks and pens and rusted machines off to the side.

“You fucked up my cabin,” the wraith reminds him.

“To send a message, Gladiolus.”

“Message received, honeybunch. What do you want this time?”

Ignis squares his shoulders and straightens to his full height. “You lead the Tempest Clan, I’m half-cooked kin. So we’ve established. I’m asking you for protection.”

There is silence as Gladiolus takes this in. “Protection,” he says slowly, “from my people?” And he laughs. It’s a laugh laced with anger and disbelief. “What’re you playing at, snake?”

Ignis stiffens. “The protection is not for me.”

“Ah.” Gladiolus’ expression twists into something scornful. It shows in his sneer, if not his bottomless eyes. “So it’s come to that. The boy has come of age.”

“You believe in the prophecy as much as I do.”

“Yes. Doesn’t mean I have to like it. Doesn’t mean I have to like _you_.”

“I’m not asking you to like anything,” Ignis says sharply, “I’m telling you to extend your protection.”

“And if I tell you to get the fuck off my property right the fuck now?”

Ignis catches the gleam in the wraith’s eyes. “Come now, Gladiolus.”

“No, really. Let’s say I did. Tell you to fuck off, I mean.”

“I’d still tell you I’m on your side. That does not mean I won’t slaughter every wraith within this district to make you comply.”

“Your threats are real cute. It must be nice for you, to have all that confidence.”

Ignis resists the urge to snort. “Stop fucking with me.”

“Ho, ho! You kiss your beloved Queen with that mouth?”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Ignis deadpans.

“I like you, Ignis, even though you fucked up my cabin and ten of my kin to make a point. I know what you need, let me have my fun. Last time, you weren’t half as amusing. You left me very disappointed.”

Last time, Ignis had almost viciously gutted Gladiolus. He’s sure the clan leader hasn’t forgotten it for a second. “You sound bitter.”

Gladiolus grins. “I’m not lying, I do like you. Real clever, disgustingly ambidextrous. I won’t make the mistake of picking another fight with you. Plus, I like my slaughterhouse. The rest of my clan likes it, too.” 

Ignis nods, says nothing.

Gladiolus waves a hand. “Two. I can spare two. White fence, yeah?”

“White fence.”

“What a treacherous bastard you are.” Gladiolus crosses his arms, and his expression turns suspiciously sober for a moment. He breaks his silence. “The Herringbone Clan has grown in size. Each rain has brought more across. They’ve taken refuge in the far north of Insomnia.”

Information. It’s rare for Gladiolus to give away so much. This is progress, at least. “And the leader’s name?”

“Now that’s telling.”

“How much do you actually like this slaughterhouse?”

“Over the foreplay already, huh? Ulric. His name’s Nyx Ulric and he will _annihilate_ you, Ignis. I am not fucking around. He will not bow. Not to you. The fury of the Herringbone goddess lives in him.”

“Your pagan gods don’t scare me.”

Gladiolus snorts. “If I were you, I’d be very afraid. Unlike your sweet Goddess of Sorrow, our gods haven’t abandoned us.” 

“You forget who you’re speaking to, Gladiolus.”

“Of course. My bad. Just keep it in mind. He takes no prisoners. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Ignis shrugs. “Let me worry about him.”

“Your funeral. Now, get the hell out, some dumbass has just given me a job to do and I’ve gotta make arrangements or he’ll fuck up my new house.” 

“Appreciate it, Gladio.” 

“Get _out_.”

 

The rain doesn’t show signs of letting up, but that suits him just fine. At least the streets are empty, even if the lack of sunlight makes his surroundings feel more like Hell on Eos. 

Ignis doesn’t trust Gladiolus, but he knows that he needs to. A betrayal would, of course, mean Ignis would have to take matters into his own hands. He doesn’t want it to have to come to that. He likes Gladiolus, even with his rough-sand voice that vibrates every molecule in the air, even with the black cavities he has for eyes, even with his smug face and absurd overconfidence. Ignis _likes_ Gladio. 

Ignis is the complete opposite of the feral beast, of course. Ignis is sharp and cold and proud and shrewd. But there is something in his blood that also screams _wild_ and _untamed_.

He knows Gladiolus can see it.

He wonders who else can.

He hears faint footsteps approaching from around the corner, wet and slopping on the pavement up ahead, but by the time he registers the sound, it’s too late. The moment the collision happens, there is nothing he can do. He cannot run or hide. He cannot incapacitate or kill.

In hindsight, he should really have avoided the streets of outer Insomnia. In hindsight, he should never have come so close to the angel’s safe house. But it was bound to happen eventually. No, he’d predicted this to happen, a very long time ago, and there’s really no helping it now.

That’s not to say Ignis is not still horribly, unfairly caught off guard. 

How dreadful. 

He isn’t prepared for this.

The boy runs straight into him and Ignis curses himself for not being aware of his presence, and he wonders about that—the fact that there had been zero warning. He doesn’t sense Noctis like he would an angel or a demon or a human. It leaves him feeling vexed and uncertain and perversely fascinated.

The boy swears at him and pushes away with a violent shove when Ignis tries to keep him upright. He sees the fear and frustration creep into the boy’s eyes, and Ignis cannot sense a single spark of magic in him, Light or otherwise. He cannot read him, even this close, which is appalling and astonishing all at once. Of all the people on Eos, he should be able to _tell_. It’s a slap in the face. And it makes him feel unexpectedly bitter. The angel is doing a very good job.

Much too good.

Then again, she never does things halfway. 

His accidental assailant bolts in the direction of the safe house, but Ignis doesn’t watch him go. The further away he is from Noctis, the better.

  

The setting of the sun brings the Spirit Rain to a halt, and the moment it lets up, Ignis runs across something unpleasant. It’s not that it’s an entirely unexpected sight, it is just not what usually happens in this part of Insomnia. Demons don’t usually venture out this far. The Citadel is miles away.

Then again, Aranea isn’t the type to stick to rules in the first place.

“Bit far from home, are we not?” he says to her, even as she tightens her strangling grip on the little wraith she has as her captive. And it’s a familiar wraith, Ignis realises belatedly. Dark hair, thin arms, pointed chin, young face.

He’s seen her more than once by Gladiolus’ side.

The little sister. Iris, if he remembers correctly.

Aranea’s response comes vicious and sour. “Says she’s a Tempest. Oh, here’s a coincidence! A few minutes ago, she demanded an audience with you. She was adamant. Maybe she thought she could bargain for her life. _Maybe_ she doesn’t know we don’t make deals with wraiths.”

In an instant, the wraith kicks both legs out and breaks free from Aranea. Her pale face is littered with streaks of broken skin and Ignis can only imagine she’s had a hard time with Aranea. Of course, Aranea never shows mercy. He’s surprised the wraith is still alive.

“Shouldn’t’ve gotten distracted, lady,” the wraith taunts her.

“Not a good move,” Aranea hisses and reaches for her knife. Only to find that the wraith has stolen it. “Oh, that’s real sneaky.”

As soon as the wraith backpedals two steps, Ignis draws his own dagger and hurls it straight at her. His aim is true, but he doesn’t make it a killing throw, and he hopes it is enough not to cause Gladiolus to go back on his word with the protection, especially now that he knows Aranea is in the vicinity.

“Wrong move,” Iris snarls at him when she catches the dagger in the shoulder and stumbles. She yanks it out, throws both knives to the ground, and bolts. She disappears fast, like a ghost.

“I’m gonna _destroy_ her.” Aranea sounds like she means it. 

“No,” Ignis snaps at her, “you are staying right here.”

She huffs a breath and makes a face. “You’re the boss.”

“You might as well explain yourself,” Ignis says as he moves to pick his blade off the ground. He eyes it critically while Aranea sullenly moves to collect hers. “What are you doing here?”

“Sport.”

Ignis tucks his blade away and finally glances at Aranea. “You are the only demon I know with the nerve to brave a blood storm and hunt for wraiths.” 

“Have you looked yourself in the mirror lately? You’ve just described yourself.”

Ignis doesn’t respond to that. “Does the Queen know you’re here?” he asks, and he tries to keep his voice level.

“ _You_ know I’m here. Isn’t that enough?” 

“That question doesn’t merit an answer.” 

Aranea frowns at him for a good moment, as though she’s trying to read him. “Is it true they have a god of their own?”

Ignis supposes she’s talking about the wraiths. He doesn’t like talking about them. He _hates_ talking about them. “They worship more than one,” he says curtly. “Depends on the clan. They have powerful gods. Destructive gods. Nothing like our Goddess. Nothing like Bahamut, either.”

“Huh. Is that why they have their little spats?” 

“Undoubtedly. They are not a united people.”

“Well, that’s good for them and all, but it’s _really_ inconvenient when they get territorial on _our_ turf. Guess it’s just a problem that has to stay.”

“I don’t think even they have a choice. The rift comes and goes. They’re as much a victim of the chaos as we are.”

“What d’you think the other side’s like? The Netherworld. Spirit Realm. Whatever.”

“What makes you think I’d have a single clue?”

Aranea grins at him.

Ignis isn’t amused. “Why don’t you ask the next wraith you plan to kill.”

“I just might.”

“Go home, Aranea.”

“It’s a long way home.” 

“The fourth townhouse on Orientis has a floor-to-ceiling mirror. No one lives there.”

“Nice. Is this you trying to get rid of me? What are you even doing here? East Insomnia is a hellhole.”

“Please go home.”

Aranea frowns. “At least you’re asking nicely.”

“Don’t make me ask again.” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Your Highness. I’ll get out of your hair now.”

She disappears in a flash of blue and Ignis is alone on the street, bathed in the ghostly glow of the street lamps along the pavement.

  

Really, he’s here because he knows one thing: the boy has turned twenty and that means everything’s about to go to shit if he just sits around the Citadel. The boy’s guardian can’t do everything on her own, as protective as she is. Lunafreya isn’t strong enough, isn’t as all-seeing as she thinks she is. 

It takes him the better part of the day to come up with a solution. 

It’s probably a reckless idea, a stupid idea. But it’s something. He doesn’t have _time_ , and neither does the angel. 

He delivers the pendant as soon as Noctis leaves the house, as soon as the white dog melts into the shadows and tails the boy from afar.

The house is warded to keep _everything_ out, so he has no choice but to let his presence be known, just like he had earlier in the day.

He feels the barrier drop. Luna knows he’s here. He’s surprised she doesn’t come out in the open to greet him on even ground. He frowns. She has never let the protective wards drop like this.

She greets him in her nightdress when she opens the front door. It makes her look small and frail. Weak. She’s always been weak in this form.

“Still here?” she says, voice low and sharp. “Make it quick, he won’t be gone long.” 

Their meetings have never lasted long anyway, Ignis thinks. He produces the silver chain with its mirrored pendant and passes it to her. It’s an exact copy of the one around his neck, and he knows Luna can feel its power as soon as it drops into the palm of her hand.

“He ran into me this afternoon,” he offers, when she doesn’t make any remark.

Luna closes a fist around the necklace and nods. “Yes, he might’ve mentioned that. It’s okay, he thinks you were an idiot to have been out in the rain, and he’s pretty sure you’re dead.” 

“Charming.”

“Oh, just wait until you get to know him.”

“I truly do not hope for that to happen.” 

Luna shakes her head and makes a wry face. “You and I both know what will come to pass. I suppose it’s why you’re here. With this.” She nods at the glittering chain in her hand.

“You will not always be there for him. From one Farseer to another, you know this more than anyone. We both know your time on Eos—”

“Yes,” Luna says shortly. “He will have it, I give you my word.”

Ignis watches as she tucks the piece of jewellery into the pocket of her dress. He wants to say more to her, but he doesn’t have the words. There'd never been many between them. “Don’t look for trouble,” he settles for.

“You can tell that to Noct.”

“Not my place. Neither should it be. You make the better guardian.” 

Luna snorts like he’s just told her a joke. “Ah, well,” she says, “ _from one Farseer to another_ —”

“Quite enough, Lunafreya.”

Luna laughs quietly. It’s the first time Ignis has ever heard anything other than caution and wariness from her. “The time will come,” she says, and Ignis doesn’t miss the waver in her voice. She really isn’t as strong as she makes herself out to be. 

Ignis feels something like pity well up in him. Perhaps, were he someone else, he would feel more than just that. “And it will be much too soon, I think,” he says to her, and he bows once, low.

Luna’s startled look is enough for him to remember her by.

“Take care, Farseer of Light,” he tells her, before he turns to leave.

“And you, Farseer of Sorrow.”

Ignis knows they will not meet again.

 

\---

 

Beloved Lunafreya had been raised surrounded by light and warmth, in a different time and a different place. As the legion’s sole Farseer, she had belonged to the highest order of the celestial hierarchy, dearly cherished, prized, and revered. She sat on the High Council as one of the thirteen seraphim, with a jewelled trident by her side and her head held high. She’d been the youngest to hold such an honour. 

Once upon a time.

Today is a different story.

Today, she is still a Farseer, but she is no longer so dearly loved by the host. No angel on the High Council will stand to listen to visions and prophecies that paint a picture of their own downfall. And so, following Luna’s decision to save the true son and advance the prophecy, she had been excommunicated, her essence viciously and thoroughly ruined.

Her exile had been expected. Nevertheless, it had hurt her in more ways than she cared to count. The pain she’d felt had been indescribable—a pain she still hurts from to this day. Like being dropped into an ocean of frost and death, the severance from her kin had left her numb and keening for weeks.

She had been left to die. And she has all the scars to show for it.

Only one thing matters to Lunafreya now. She needs to keep Noctis from being murdered in his sleep.

 

She had never expected to grow so attached to the boy. She had never expected to love him. Knowing the truth of his lineage, she had expected nothing but a dark and ugly enigma.

Seeing him grow into the young man he is today, she can freely admit it. She can admit that she loves him like a mother would a child, and she does so in spite of the fact that she knows he finds her strange. A creature to be feared. Perhaps not as much as he fears Pryna, but Luna sees the way Noctis tries hard not to flinch when she heals his wounds and cloaks their home in her suffocating magic. He’s able to detect even the faintest of her enchantments. Even more troubling, she’s quite certain he can distinguish her spellwork from others. 

Noctis suspects she isn’t human – yes, nothing less from his hereditary sixth sense. She knows that he’s itching to learn about her. Only his respect for her holds his tongue. She fears the day that respect wanes. She doesn’t know if she’d be able to stand the questions. 

Insomnia is the only place left on Eos that isn’t completely ruined by the eroding chaos of the Netherworld. The angels have their home outside the walls of the city, but they are more than capable of protecting themselves and keeping tainted magic at bay. They are able to stand the chaos. 

She chooses Insomnia for many reasons.

The city brings them closer to the Adversary. It gives them the chance to lie with snakes. Seventeen years of bringing a child up in the decaying metropolis is enough to make her very good at it.

When she brings the house to the ground, Father Hester’s church is the one place she knows is safer than most. Unfortunately, being what she is – a child of Bahamut – she also knows that hiding within a House of Light is just as dangerous as walking into the arms of the angels.

 

The presence of the visitor doesn’t surprise her. Noctis turning twenty has marked the turning point in the prophecy, and it’s been more than a week now. She’s surprised it’s taken this long for the angels to hunt them down.

It’s the self-indulgent tune that her caller is whistling that throws her off guard.

It’s something high-pitched and whimsical and stupid. Not to mention dreadfully familiar.

They’ve sent one of their youngest to kill her charge, and she knows exactly who the angel is.

He’d been one of her closest friends before her fall.

All things considered, she’s just glad she’d sent Noctis north of the city this morning. At least she knows he’ll be miles from the church when it happens.

His wings are silvery bright and strong and sturdy against his slim frame, and the sight of him causes anger to spike through her. Anger and all the sadness in the world.

“I haven’t seen you in almost two decades,” she says to him, as he makes his presence known in the barren courtyard. “Is the High Council sending fledgling warriors to Insomnia to do their bidding now? How things have changed.” 

His hair glitters in the sunlight. There’s a benign smile on his face, which she counters with a scowl. She will not let the familiarity of him overpower her. He’s the first angel she’s seen in Insomnia in seventeen years. His warmth and grace is inviting and strong and beautiful, and she will _not_ let nostalgia or romanticism get in the way.

When he speaks, her spine straightens.

“C’mon, Lu.” Oh, how his voice makes Luna want to flee. “You’re being ridiculous. The angels _protect_ this city.”       

Luna scoffs. “Do you honestly believe that? The angels haven’t done a _thing_ to protect Insomnia. Not for centuries. You dare show your face to the humans? Bahamut’s followers have dwindled. There are hardly any places of worship left.”

“Hmm.” The angel pushes his shoulders back and flexes his arms. The wings that trail behind him ripple provocatively, sinew and interlacing feathers stirring as though mocking her. “Don’t care. I’m not here to change that.” 

Luna sneers. “Of course not. How silly of me to assume.” 

There’s a warm breeze blowing, but not a single hair on the angel’s head moves. “I’m just here to do my job, Lu.”

“Ah.” Luna nods. Of course. The poor bastard. “Orders are orders, as we both know. I used to be quite brilliant at following them. Baa, baa.” She flicks a stray lock of hair off her face and smiles wanly. “Come, Prompto, do your worst. This black sheep’s getting old.”


	3. Blind Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War among friends.

The air in Insomnia tastes like stagnant time.

It is nothing like the home of the angels.

It is a crumbing city, a wilting garden of decaying technology and paranoid inhabitants. And while he knows the city is one of the only true havens left on Eos, one of the last strongholds against the black chaos of the Netherworld that holds every other inch of Lucis hostage, he knows that it is a _failing_ haven. Its Wall can only do so much to keep the otherworldly magic from seeping through and contaminating the streets. Already, he smells the fear and misery.

Not that it matters much to him. He doesn’t care for the humans who live here, neither does he give a damn about the demons and their pitiful attempts to keep the wraiths from taking over the dying capital. Demon affairs are of no concern to him. So long as he avoids the Citadel, he should remain undetected and undisturbed by those who dwell in the royal household.

He has one job here. It is _not_ to piss off Queen Aulea.

His journey here hadn’t been pleasant. The land now kneels to the madness of the chaos. Creatures have turned, water is poison, the laws of nature destroyed. He’d seen this on his way to Insomnia – nothing but pockets of dead things huddled together below, the creatures of the land hunted by unseen forces and stolen away to another time and place when the gates open, never to be seen again. Nothing but blood and dust and strange magic left behind. No warmth and light, not even the safety of darkness. Just destruction and decay.

Prompto understands, damn well, a thing or two about the way the world works. Call him young, call him cocky, he’ll spit in your face for it. He already knows it; he’s the youngest angel to make the ranks, less than a century old, quicksilver wings still bright and full like the rest of the adolescents, primed for long-distances and backbreaking winds. Wings like his are built to carry him across land and ocean, to the continent of Lucis overnight with no rest.

As with all the young ones, his initiation into the legion had been brutal. Prompto had been trained for violence from day one. Other divine plans were forged for the single friend he’d made during his childhood. She’d been taken from him, stolen away, groomed to become the youngest angel in history to take the High Council’s thirteenth seat, trapped within the stone walls of Fenestala Manor, where the rest of the highborn celestials made their home. A deceptively beautiful palace, a house of absolute power.

He’d been too young to understand the fall of Lunafreya, the Oracle, the thirteenth seraph, the sole Farseer of their kind. All he’d been told was that his best friend had betrayed them, and he hadn’t believed it. But, as is the law of all of Tenebrae that governs the angels of the Light, there is one rule: High Council commandments are absolute and true.

And this is all he knows: he grew up with Luna by his side, a true friend with six wings as blinding as snow under sunlight, and that friend had been a very special angel, with powers of a prophet and the blessings of the late king. And she had been praised and loved for many years. But her single decision to save the life of the prophecy’s impure child – the son of Queen Aulea – had her thrown from the High Council and banished from Tenebrae.

Prompto had witnessed the clipping. Funny thing about angels: they are just as fragile as humans. Sever any limb from a body and blood loss comes swift. But Luna, she doesn’t die from the carving of her wings from her back. Luna had survived and fled, without the gift of flight, from the mountains of Tenebrae to the city of Insomnia. And she now lives under the guise of an ageless girl together with the unwitting halfling boy who ruined her life.

Luna, the lone angel trying to bring a doomsday prophecy to fruition.

Luna, with her kind soul and delicate wings of pure light. Luna, with all of her terrible decisions. Luna, an exiled highborn and a traitor.

Prompto, all young exuberance and quicksilver reflexes, had loved her dearly.

Today, he has come to the last bastion of Lucis to destroy his childhood friend and seek out the abomination she’s been hiding.

 

Finding her is almost too easy. No creature, no matter how powerful or skilled they are, can ward a House of Light against an angel. It is not possible – Bahamut’s angels are always welcome here. Either Luna is incredibly stupid or she’s run out of options to safeguard the boy.

Perhaps she has not been expecting someone to come knocking so soon.

He doesn’t bother with the front door; he prefers stealth over fanfare. Best to get this over with without humans interfering. The cobblestoned courtyard he lands in is quiet and sparsely decorated, patches of weedy grass either dead or dying. Broken flowerbeds line dilapidated walls, stained glass windows glimmer dully around him. A lone statue of a winged lizard towers in the middle of the grounds, some hilariously inaccurate impression that makes Prompto roll his eyes.

It doesn’t take long for Luna to emerge from one of the small doors, a pale little girl in a long white dress that sweeps silently across the ground with each step she takes. The sight of her in such a pitiful form is enough to make his heart ache for a moment. She’d been powerful, once. Wise and beautiful and cherished and nothing like this. Nothing like this.

And she’s immediately defensive. Of course she is. She knows exactly what he’s here for.

“Is the High Council sending fledgling warriors to Insomnia to do their bidding now? How things have changed.”

Her voice is nothing like he remembers, rougher and pitched higher, and he realises she is nothing but a stranger here. He wonders if he should make this quick, wonders if Luna will prefer it quick. The thought comes slow and torturous and hot.

“I’m just here to do my job, Lu,” he tells her, sincere and open.

The pointless sniping is over as soon as it begins and nothing goes according to plan after that.

He feels a gathering of heat in the atmosphere, knows Luna has dredged up some pitiful pool of magic from the air around her. Prompto knows her magic is stifled under this form, limited to near nothing. Her might is incomparable to a full-fledged warrior of the Light. Her days of being a celestial are over and every moment she exerts herself costs her dearly, this he knows.

His fingers flex instinctively; he knows what he must do. The shimmering sunlight illuminates the sea of blue in Luna’s eyes, even from this distance, and Prompto avoids her gaze, resolutely and stubbornly. He knows he will only find disappointment and fury and every shadow of forgiveness there. He hopes the last seventeen years have changed Luna enough that she will fight back and not go quietly to the grave. Prompto owes her a chance, even if the Council will never deign to. 

The protective magic she casts around her smells like starlight. It envelops her, creates a gleaming mote that flickers orange-red at her feet. Ah, so she has enough of her Oracle powers left. Perhaps he’d been wrong to assume she’d just lie down and die. She is a threat after all.

Still, her protective circle will not last, he thinks. She is too cut off from the host to handle conjuring something so advanced and unstable. And it’s not like Prompto will be resorting to magic today. He has other tricks up his sleeve.

Her voice is dark above the crystalline shimmer that her complex shield emanates. “He _has_ to restore power to his bloodline, Prom. He has to.”

Ah, and there she goes with the prophecy of the cursed son. “Which bloodline are we talking about here, Lu? You know what he is. That half-demon’s blood is not pure!”

“He’s half _angel_. And not just any half-angel.”

“He’s not just any half- _demon_ either! Better to kill him now than let him suffer later. And he _will_ suffer, once he understands what he is. He’s already—.”

“Kill him—! Prompto, have the elders fed you so much bullshit that you cannot even think for yourself? Noctis is kin, he’s one of us.”

“You say ‘us’ like you still belong.”

“Don’t I?”

Prompto is silent for a long moment. Luna’s eyes are bright and piercing, they remind him of all the times she’d smiled at him when they’d been young and beautiful creatures of yesterday. “Yes,” he says. “You do. To me, you are one of us. Lu, you’ll always be one of us, no matter what they say. But he isn’t. Not to me.”

“He is. He will be. Demon blood or not, he’s the son of our late king. And I am his protector.” 

“Then you’ve signed your life away, Luna. I have zero choice here.” The words come pouring out of his mouth, brutal and unfair, and he knows he’s stalling now. It irks him, so he strips the magic from his surroundings and pulls forth the sensation of cold steel in his palm.

He hears Luna sigh above the rush of his magic. “This is it, then,” she says.

“Yeah. This is goodbye,” he says, swinging his arm up to snatch at the familiar weight that drops into existence. He aims the barrel of his gun at Luna. His Lion Heart has never let him down. No magic circle can deflect a damn bullet.

Luna completely surprises him when she summons her own weapon. Something familiar and dangerous.

So the relic finally shows itself.

“You still have that?” he grates out before he fires three shots without warning in Luna’s direction.

None of them hit her; he hadn’t expected them to. The trident’s ancient magic has given her enough power to move with the reflexes of a cat.

Prompto sneers at the setback and launches himself off his feet. If Luna has the trident, she can inflict some proper damage. The Oracle has always been powerful. At least she cannot fly, of this he is certain. They carved the wings off her back, he still remembers the screams and the nightmares he’d had after. Lunafreya of Fenestala’s High Council, now a walking skeleton full of scars.

“Don’t be a hero, Prompto. Not for them,” Luna yells up at him.

“I don’t want to do this,” he snaps, gaining his footing on the statue of Bahamut. “You know I don’t.”

“And yet here we are.”

Prompto thinks of the fallen angel before him. He doesn’t want to become her. He doesn’t want to lose his home. To lose his place among the angels of Tenebrae. This shell… this shrivelled creature that stands before him in the body of a child… this Luna is helpless. Lost to some cause the angels cannot stand for, a prophecy that everyone knows will change the world too much, too soon. No one in their right mind should want that. And so Luna has to die.

The trident is rendering his firearm useless at this range, so he flings it back into the ether and flies straight for Luna. He’s much bigger than her; a fully grown angel will no doubt be able to kill a girl without much effort, he thinks. Even one as strong-willed as Luna.

The moment he flies into the confines of the magic circle, he realises his mistake. Luna has always had a knack for manipulating the space around her. His wings snap backward painfully like they’ve been frozen, and he immediately crashes to the ground. He tries to land on his feet, but her influence on the gravity around them is too great. His right ankle twists painfully before his face finds the ground.

This deters him for only a second. He rolls to his feet, ignoring the gravel cutting into the broken skin of his cheek and the roaring pain in his foot, and he yanks out the small knife hidden under his leather vest, the one he’d used to skin two mountain coeurls just last week. It’s small and hasn’t been sharpened since the hunt, but it’ll have to do.

Luna’s trident is awkward in her tiny hands and Prompto has the advantage at close range if it is the only weapon she has. 

The air is suddenly thick with magic, Luna’s magic. It seems to sap some energy from him.

Out of the blue, he feels a lull in his racing mind, like a blanket of soft light, and his thoughts are crowded with the memory of Luna’s delicate fingers carding through his hair, Luna’s crystal blue eyes, the feel of Luna’s blindingly white feathers against his palm, soft and firm all at once. He remembers the Oracle’s ancient trident, encrusted with so many mysterious jewels, meteorites that rained down from the sky an age ago. “Prompto, you can hold it”, he remembers her saying to him with an amused smile, white light streaming in from the windows of her bedchamber surrounding them that lazy afternoon. “It’s much less fragile than you think.” And Prompto, an awkward child with clumsy fingers at the time, hadn’t thought that at all. The trident looked terrifying and unholy to him. A harbinger of death. An artefact to remind the angels of the ancient warmongers that lived in a time before Bahamut’s withdrawal from Eos. 

He remembers the powerful snap of wind and sound that Luna’s wings made when they took to the skies together, their whoops and laughs mingling freely. He remembers the one flight they took, over the mountains and under the stars, until their wings glittered with frost and their lungs hurt. They had ached for days afterwards. He remembers the pride he’d felt during her ascension as the youngest Oracle in history, remembers the confusion and anger when the council forced her out. 

They slam into him, memories and feeling. 

He jerks back and almost loses his footing in his attempt to block the assault. His ankle twinges.

“Stop it”, he snaps. The smother of emotions dissipate like syrup dissolving in water, like the sudden splicing of fragmented sunlight fading away into dusk. Everything about the situation is already throwing him off balance and he needs to _focus_. He shakes off the phantom feeling of ice-coated wingtips.

The trident bites into his injured face. It narrowly misses taking his eye out. He hisses and staggers for a moment, feels the burning cut under his eye mingle with the pain from the gravel in his wounds. But he doesn’t let that slow him down – his healing magic is already rushing through his veins and dampening the pain like a poultice. 

His knife finds Luna’s forearm. She backpedals from the assault, fingers loosening around the pole of the trident. It falls from her grasp, and the magic around them shudders from the disruption. The relic no longer has a wielder. Prompto feels the magic circle flicker and bleed away quickly. He immediately tosses the knife to the side and snatches Lion Heart from the air, fires twice, almost point-blank. 

Both silver bullets find her chest and she goes down hard.

Red blossoms across her front, a growing stain that gets uglier by the second. And he _feels_ the pain radiate outward from her body through sheer proximity alone, stark and stabbing. He _flinches_ from it.

Astonishingly, Luna manages to drag herself to her feet, body leaving a shimmering impression in the air that fades into nothing. Prompto almost gags on the sickly smell of extinguished magic that chokes him. Luna’s extinguished magic.

Luna—

She is no longer a little girl now.

Her hair is longer, matted and knotted together in half-formed braids. She is taller, her face sharper and her features aristocratic under the streaks of tears that coat her face. She has lost enough magic to reduce her masquerading form to nothing. She is her _true_ self, and Prompto had always found her beautiful. He still does, even though this form lays bare the unsightly three-inch stumps protruding from her back.

He doesn’t know why he says it, it just comes to him, and he doesn’t know if he will regret it: “You’ve been on borrowed time the moment you took him under your wing, Lunafreya. Oh, but you don’t actually have wings anymore, huh? You brought this upon yourself.”

“He’s the _prince_ ,” she snarls at him violently, seizing the trident from the ground in an unexpected display of dexterity for a dying angel. Her eyes are filled with pain, even as she lunges forward.

His mind flashes with the image of six glorious, _glorious_ seraph wings, feathers impeccably white, like a forest of fresh snow. They remind Prompto of a blizzard when in motion, reflecting sunlight and starlight and—

He feels the trident nick the flesh of his left shoulder, but the momentum carries the weapon further than just his upper body. It perforates his left wing.

No.

_No._

He reels from the shock, tries to block the excruciating pain from consuming him completely. The spires rip through muscle. He feels, _hears_ , feathers tear away from skin. Panic causes him to jerk both wings backward in order to break free, and as soon as he does, he beats them frantically to keep his balance. His blood sprinkles across the cobblestones. He loses _all_ control of his magic, feels it surge into overdrive as it works desperately to heal the laceration.

Luna drops the trident and drops to her knees. Faintly, Prompto can hear her speaking. “—he’s _our_ prince,” he makes out through his haze of agony.

Everything feels like deteriorating magic around them. He has to end this. Soon. Now. “The weak halfling you’ve raised is no prince,” he grits out. “His blood is no purer than a demon’s. Ruined with the ice of Shiva, and worse, belonging to the mad woman who killed King Regis!” 

“Be that as it may, he’s still the one the prophecy names prince.”

“Pretty sure your stupid prophecy names _two_ princes, and both are completely damaged. Tainted blood.”

“Noctis is _your_ prince, Prompto. He’s the son of our king! If Regis were alive today, he would have your head! Bahamut would strike you where you stand! Bahamut would obliterate the High Council for spitting on the prophecy! Prompto, you can’t have forgotten. He’s… _Noctis is the son of King Regis_.”

“And His Majesty,” Prompto’s voice cracks, “has been dead as long as your prince has been alive!” His words cut the tip of his tongue. “I _loved_ you, Luna. You were my sister. As good as. I would never have abandoned you. Not… not like Ravus—”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

“He bailed on you.”

“He was _scared_ , Prompto. He was fucking terrified.”

“For you? Or for himself? He ran away, too afraid to be associated with a traitor.”

“And when the council banished me, left me to die, where were you? When I needed help, where were you? Prompto, you never stood by me when they cleaved my life, my _home_ , from me. You dare speak about Ravus that way! Like you are so much better!”

Luna’s words ring with hurt and rage and betrayal. They leave his mouth dry.

Enough is enough.

He _has_ to end this.

He shuts his eyes and shifts his weight from one foot to another. Everything hurts, but he’s sure Luna’s hurting so much more. He doesn’t sense a lick of magic left in her, and none of it will ever return to her again.

He gropes wildly for the _connection_ , tries to recall the half-forgotten thread of magic tethering him to the heavy resonance that sits just out of reach. His breathing stops short when he finds it, and he pours all his focus into summoning the atrocity lying on the ground, stained with his blood.

When he next opens his eyes, it is done. Terrifying and unholy, it feels just as dangerous in his hands as it had the first time. “You shouldn't have let me touch it all those years ago.”

Luna eyes the trident with a blank expression before she breaks into a small smile. “Very clever,” she says, and her tone is maddening. Like she has somehow been expecting this, like she has somehow known he’d be able to maintain his connection with the trident’s magic after all this time.

Prompto hates fate.

Prompto thinks Luna’s Farseer powers are bullshit.

It doesn’t take much to have Luna on the ground and the trident hovering an inch from her face. She does not fight back.

“Did you predict this?” he spits out bitterly.

“Yes.”

Of course she did. Of course.

Everything is a blur and he is suddenly quite aware that he’s crying. For Luna or for himself, he doesn’t know. “You predicted I was going to be your executioner?” His hands are trembling.

“No, my visions have never granted such clarity. I never see faces, only events. But I knew my life would be taken by the trident. Now I see its wielder, clear as day.”

“What a way to go.” He barely recognises his own voice. There is too much pain consuming him.

“There are no winners here, Prompto.” Luna is drenched in so much blood. Too much blood. She is a collapsing star. “It’s your turn to be on borrowed time,” she tells him. “You don’t stand a chance. I’ve _seen_ your last moments.”

And for a split second, Prompto is filled with fear. Her words, along with her decomposing magic, chill him to the bone. She’s dying, she’s _dying._ He hovers the trident over Luna’s angel heart. And maybe he looks every bit as insane as he feels, but then he hears the whispers from _them_ – the Wise, the Conqueror, the Wanderer, the Mystic, the Rogue, the Tall, the Fierce, the Clever, the Pious, the Just, the Warrior –and he knows he must kill his friend.

Something sizzles in the air; something electric.

And this is what he sees, bright and clear, pushing past his terror and swallowing him whole, a last resort from Luna: they are young, they are smiling, they are holding hands, everything makes beautiful sense.

The prophecy has to _end._  

The trident flashes in the sunlight. 

Lunafreya doesn’t move, only closes her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompto wielding the trident and being a complete psycho is my jam.
> 
> next chapter, noct and ignis meet. properly.


End file.
